


And Heaven Too

by PlotDotOh (TheCheerfulPornographer), radial_symmetry



Series: All Sorts of Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Characters Reading Fanfic, Ficlet Collection, Historical, Inspired by Music, Mixtape, Other, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Road Trips, The Arrangement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCheerfulPornographer/pseuds/PlotDotOh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/radial_symmetry/pseuds/radial_symmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale and Crowley throughout the years and around the world, from before the Arrangement up until the present day. </p><p>(Not really a Supernatural crossover - only the first chapter mentions Supernatural.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. San Bernardino

**1\. San Bernardino — The Mountain Goats**

_"And it was hard but you were brave, you are splendid  
And we will never be alone in this world  
no matter what they say  
We're gonna be okay"_

**Date:** January, 2012  
 **Place:** JFK International Airport, New York City, USA

 

The rental car is a tiny, bright blue Honda Fit. When Crowley sees it, his jaw drops, hanging slightly lower than should be physically possible. "Honestly, angel? _This_ is what you hired for us to drive across America in?"

"I think it's cute," the angel responds defensively. "And besides, it has good fuel economy." 

"WE DON'T USE PETROL!"

Aziraphale waves his hand dismissively. "There now, you're just cranky from the plane ride. Come on, dear, you'll feel better once we hit the road."

"I'm _cranky_ because you made me give up my first class seat," the demon complains.

"I did nothing of the sort! I was going to give up _my_ first class seat to an expectant mother. _You_ could have stayed right where you were."

"What, and sit next to that beached whale? She needed that seat for her kid, and you know it. And besides, she was BORING. What am I going to talk about with a stay-at-home mother from Croydon?"

"What have you got against Croydon?" the angel snaps as he begins to manhandle his overstuffed suitcase into the small trunk. The top sticks out when he's done, and he glares at it in frustration, pushing his glasses back on his nose. 

Crowley, through millennia of experience, recognizes the gesture signaling that the angel has reached the end of his rope, and knows that something's going to be blessed soon if he doesn't intervene. "Alright, alright," he says, pushing his leather jacket into the angel's arms as a distraction. He wiggles the suitcase until it falls into the trunk. 

"No, you're right, angel. We should just get underway. We've 30 days to see America in..." he trails off, giving the tiny, boxlike vehicle a dubious glare, "... style."

The angel's temper seems to settle as he slides into the passenger seat, immediately leaning it back 30 degrees. "I just can't wait to visit California. Ooh, Crowley, do you think we'll run into any famous actors?"

"I dunno, maybe. Personally I'm looking forward to Las Vegas, and the Devil's Tower in Wyoming. Oh, and Lawrence, Kansas."

The angel visibly rolls his eyes. "Oh, honestly, Crowley. Just because of that silly TV show..."

"Hey, Supernatural's a good show. You're just jealous that _you_ don't have a character named after you."

"They got EVERYTHING WRONG. Everything! And their angels are simply awful..."

"So? Not all of them are, and anyways, it's fiction. I mean, their Crowley isn't nearly as good-looking or clever as me, but he's still fun. And you can't deny that _their_ rebel angel is pretty hot." 

_...And he reminds me a bit of you,_ Crowley thinks. _So willing to defy both Heaven and Hell to preserve the things he loves._ He'll never say that part out loud, though. He doesn't want to draw too many parallels.

 _His_ angel will never be alone like Castiel — not for as long as Anthony J. Crowley exists in any shape or form.

Aziraphale sniffs in annoyance. "Oh, please. I _know_ Cassiel, and that Cas fellow is _nothing_ like her. They even spelled her name wrong! The poor girl would be simply mortified if she knew that there were people out there... _shipping_ her."

"Her, huh? I thought you lot were still innately sexless," the demon teases, looking sideways with a little smirk. 

"Oh, honestly, dear. Are _you_ , of all creatures, going to hassle someone for choosing the feminine pronoun, Ms. 'I Like to Wear Breasts On Occasion'?"

(It's true. Crowley does have a certain... appreciation for the female form, at times.)

"Two words, angel. Multiple. Orgasms."

Aziraphale flushes bright red and Crowley grins wider in triumph, flicking the tip of his tongue against his teeth. "Sssso, angel, wanna tell me how you know about shipping?"

Aziraphale's voice suddenly gets very quiet. 

"...I suppose I just picked it up somewhere..."

"Angel..."

"...quite a well-known concept, really..."

"Angel..."

"...looking for things to read, and I just..."

_"Angel!"_

" _What_ , Crowley?"

"It's okay. I already know that you read slash. I saw it in your browser history like, three months ago."

The angel pouts.

"Oh c'mon, 'Zira, it's fine. I read slash, too. Everybody on the blessed Internet reads slash, I think. Besides, doesn't Destiel shipping belong to you guys? I always assumed it was your side's answer to Wincest."

"Wait, _you_ came up with Wincest?"

Crowley looks away, and tries to appear as if he's focusing _really hard_ on the road. 

"Ahem. Maybe that was all just humans."

Time to change the subject. 

"So anyways, angel, how long until the first hotel?"


	2. Angeles

**2\. Angeles — Elliott Smith**

_I could make you satisfied in everything you do  
All your secret wishes could right now be coming true  
And be forever with my poison arms around you_

_No one's gonna fool around with us  
So glad to meet you, Angeles_

**Date:** around 2600 BC  
 **Place:** Mohenjo-Daro, in modern-day Pakistan

 

Humans may have invented gambling, but Crowley is well on his way to inventing the first gambling addiction.

He crouches in the dust with the group of five men, shifting uncomfortably, doing his best not to dirty his brand new sandals. Pulling the little pile of beads into his lap, he notices the way one man in particular follows the glittering payment with his eyes. This man's fingers twitch, as if he's restraining himself from grabbing at the shining heap. 

Crowley smiles to himself. _Bingo._

This is what he does, now. It's become his M.O. — to seek out and find those tiny points of imbalance that seem to exist in every human's psyche. Because one thing he's learned in this millennium on Earth is that there's _always_ something. Every man has his weakness, and every woman too. There's always that one thing that's just a bit off: a hidden desire, or a repressed fear. Something that springs up in the dark of their dreams, in the shadows where people don't allow themselves to see.

Crowley finds that place, and then he _pushes_.

It's all free will, of course. Crowley doesn't _make_ anybody do anything; he doesn't even usually lie. (Ironic, considering how often he drives others toward falsehood.) He doesn't create these desires; he just brings them to light, and then walks away. Usually laughing.

This method of tempting is highly efficient. Crowley is starting to appreciate that, given recent increases in the human population. Sometimes only an hour's investment gains him a new soul. Like right now. 

Because Crowley's going to lose the next round, just barely; and the panic bubbling inside that man's eyes will turn to elation, and then to greed. A course will be set, and in five years they will have him. 

Meanwhile, the man on his left will become angered by losing, and will cuff his son on the head when he goes home, worsening a childhood already filled with hatred and fear. And the third fellow, who will end up with all of the luck today, will take his winnings and go get drunk, and later sleep with an expensive prostitute. His two wives won't find out, and he won't catch a disease, but he'll never be quite happy with his marriages again.

Crowley loves the concept of the _city_ — bringing all of these people together in one place, making this type of mass tempting possible. What a glorious conceit, and so very human. He wonders if he could take the credit, somehow.

Crowley begins to notice a certain disturbance in the ebb and flow of the marketplace, and it pulls his attention away from the game. The demon looks up to see a group of five men dressed in fine linen robes, walking closely together and talking. In their arms are clay tablets, and one of them is holding a sharpened reed. 

Scribes, then.

Crowley frowns. He hasn't quite figured out what he thinks about this concept of _writing_. On the one hand, it promotes order over chaos, which is a minus for his side. Fear and selfishness thrive amid chaos, and the strong are driven to prey upon the weak. On the other hand, he can see how _writing_ could be used for rapid transmission of human ideas; which, being human ideas, are at least as likely to be Evil as they are to be Good.

His train of thought is broken when one of the scribes — a tall, slender man with light brown skin and finely curled black hair — turns slightly, and looks the demon in the eye. _Oh sssshit. Him?_ A chill runs up and down Crowley's spine, as he recognizes the angel. _That_ angel. The angel from the Garden, now his designated Adversary. 

He hasn't seen the angel in the City before now. Crowley has assumed that perhaps there is just too much concentrated evil here, that the angel would have to stay out in the countryside, comforting shepherds and other such pointless nonsense. But apparently, the angel has gathered its courage, and here it is. Integrating itself into human culture, at that.

Crowley thought he had a monopoly on that tactic, before now.

Smoothly and gracefully, the demon rises to his feet, abandoning his beads and carved sticks where they lie. His companions call after him, but he ignores them. _It's your lucky day, fellows. You get away, this time._ Or not, as the case may be. It's entirely possible that his leaving will make no difference to the final outcome.

He runs after the disguised angel, who in turn calls out to its companions and drops back. The scribes continue onward, and in a moment, angel and demon stand face to face, for the first time in several hundred years.

Crowley grins, and his sharp white teeth sparkle and gleam. "Hello there, angel. Care for a game of sticks? I'll wager you an innocent soul against a damned one..."

The angel looks at him. Its eyes are brown with round pupils, just like Crowley's. Just like everyone's, here in the Indus Valley.

The demon wonders if the illusion makes the angel's eyes itch, the way it does for him. 

_He remembers the Garden, and eyes of bright blue, sky blue, the kind of blue that pierces.  Eyes that glow with their own, inner light. Crawly tries not to squirm beneath that gaze; it has weight and texture, like a physical thing. Like a hand running over the Serpent's scales, touching and tracing every part of him. As the angel studies him in silence, it takes everything in Crawly's power not to scurry away._

The power of the angel's gaze is much diminished in its current disguise, and Crowley finds himself grateful. He's not sure he could maintain his poise against the being's real eyes, sizing and measuring him up with that cold stare.

"Demon. What are you doing in this place?"

"It's Crowley, now. Hello." He gives a little, flippant wave. "What have you got there?"

The angel pulls the clay tablets closer to its chest. "Nothing that concerns you, fiend. Begone; you cannot tempt me."

"So that's a no on the stick game, then? C'mon, I'll give you two souls to one..." Crowley wheedles.

The angel just stares at him with an unreadable expression. "Demon, this City which is called Mohenjo-Daro is now under my protection. Take care that I do not find you here again." And the prim, annoying man-shaped being turns on its heel and strides away, hurrying to catch up with the other scribes.

Crowley's teeth fang up in irritation but he forces them back down, studying the angel's figure as it disappears. This angel (called "Aziraphael", he now remembers) is one of the most perfectly balanced beings he has ever met. The celestial messenger's mind is like a smooth stone wall, flat and level, with no cracks. There's no leverage, no place for the demon to get a toehold. There's no _personality_.

But he'll find it. Oh yes. He's going to keep trying. Because every being has some form of weakness; no one is perfect, only God. There's a crack in there somewhere, and Crowley's going to find it. 

One he does, once he figures out the angel's weakness, ones he gets his hooks in — then the _real_ fun will begin.*

 

* This will turn out to be an accurate assumption, although perhaps not in the way that Crowley is expecting.


	3. All the Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Contains copious amounts of angel angst and a bit of sexual imagery.

**3\. All the Wine — The National**

_"I'm put together beautifully  
Big wet bottle in my fist, big wet rose in my teeth  
I'm a perfect piece of ass, like every Californian  
So tall I take over the street, with high beams shining up my back  
A wingspan unbelievable  
I'm a festival, I'm a parade"_

**Date:** September, 1890  
 **Place:** The Moulin Rouge nightclub, Paris, France

 

Crowley loves to dance, but never with one person. I have seen him do this a million times by now. 

He loves to go out to these clubs and make his way to the exact center of the dance floor, surrounded by all of those arching backs and swaying hips and miles upon miles of tensed muscle; but he never notices any one body in particular.

Every human who sees him thinks that he's dancing with someone else; and everyone who thinks that is instantly, unaccountably jealous. Covetous of the demon's touch, his attention. Smitten with lust.

Tonight, sitting here and watching just like always, I don't want Crowley. Not like that. I don't want to melt into him like water and run downstream together, the way these boys and girls do. 

(So young, so fleeting. They want all things in an instant, and then they are gone.)

I don't want to feel his arms around me, his lips pressed against my flesh. His hand in my hair, curled, pulling. His tongue against my own. His legs between me, pushing mine apart. His weight, his heat. No, none of that.

Tonight, I covet something different.

Tonight, I want to _be_ him.

Here's the thing you have to know to understand temptation: Famine doesn't go hungry. War is never herself wounded. Pollution isn't dirty. And Death can never die.

What I'm trying to say is, Crowley is Lust. Or he can be, sometimes, when he's feeling a bit reckless. And he goes out and he winds his way into people's senses, making them want things. Making them _crave_.

But Pestilence was never ill a day in his long life. And when Crowley's like this, when he's out there being Lust, no one can touch him. 

Though everybody wants to.

When Crowley is like this, he is his own beginning, and he is his own ending. He needs only himself: the one thing he always has. 

No one else can touch him, because what would be the point? Any addition would only detract.

I've heard myths of the old, dead goddesses who danced, and their dances were sacred and holy. They inspired ecstasy and frenzy. But I always wondered what those goddesses were feeling, while they danced. 

Did their feet hurt? Did they worry that they might forget the moves? Did they get bored of the same old tired songs?

Or were they something like this demon, full of glory – and Heaven knows that's not a thing that I should think, but there it goes. Glory shines in his eyes, and dark glasses cannot hide it; glory streams from his back in wings that everyone should see, and sparks from his fingers, tipping claws that aren't there. Glory upon his lips, in the hair upon his arms, glory in the swaying hips and knees and toes and ankles. 

(Heaven doesn't know.) 

He is Wanting and the Wanted, the fuel and the flame. 

And me? I sit here with my drink, and if my knuckles are white, if my hand shakes, no one will notice. It's too dark, and any human who sits down stands up quickly. (Am I doing that? I honestly don't know.)

I covet his self-possession. I covet his lack of Need.

Here's the thing you have to know to understand angels: we were created incomplete. God left a piece out of us, on purpose. There's a hole right in the middle of every angel's soul. It's meant to be a reminder that we are all interconnected, that we all rely on His Voice and His Presence, just to live.

Angels are meant to Need. To need God, to need each other. To exist in a great circle, being touched and touching, voices raised in high hosannas, always mingling. Always together.

Angels _aren't_ meant to make their own decisions. Angels aren't meant to have freedom of will.

I fear that I am changing. I'm almost certain that I am. Not Falling, but Changing. Aziraphale of Earth.

That doesn't make the needing any less.

("Hosanna!" I whisper, but it is drowned out by the music.)

My demon is beautiful, but worse: he does not Need. Not at times like this. Not when he is being Lust.

I do not wish to Fall, only to Change; but how I wish that I could be like him. Not myself, not silly Aziraphale, drunk and empty-handed, a featherheaded fool. 

People think that angels are untouchable, by nature. I could easily be touched right now, if anyone would try.

Once or twice or fifty times, somebody has. And it's everything, for an instant; but in an instant they are gone. How many more times can I repeat this?

Afterwards, I always end up here. The two of us together, him wiling, me waiting.

Both of us alone, but I'm the only one who _minds_.

\-------------

 

"Crowley! What are you—" The angel does _not_ squawk, he really doesn't. He just frantically grabs the crumpled sheets of paper away from his friend, tearing them in the progress. 

"Whoa, whoa!" The demon holds up his hands placatingly. "I was just—"

"What did you read?"

"Nothing, nothing!" The angel gives him a familiar _look_ , lips pursed in skepticism, but there is a strange and frightened flicker in the depths of those sky-blue eyes. 

Crowley pretends not to notice. "No really, angel, it was just some nonsense about me not dancing with anyone. Which totally _is_ nonsense, by the way. I don't know where you got that idea from, but I dance with people all of the time. Lots and _lots_ of them. If you know what I mean." The demon gives an outrageous wink.

The angel's expression shifts away from something perilously close to fear, and toward a much more typical look of fond exasperation. "Yes, of course, dear, if you say so. Let's go, then."

As the angel turns away, shoving the papers into the pocket of his overcoat, Crowley — who is a supernaturally fast reader — gives his oldest friend a slow and careful look.


	4. Moment of Forgiveness

**4\. Moment of Forgiveness — The Indigo Girls**

_"Well I guess that I was lonely,  
That's why I called you on the phone  
'Cause in a moment of forgiveness  
I didn't want to be alone"_

**Date:** around 900 BC  
 **Place:** La Venta, in modern day Tabasco, Mexico

 

Flying always reminded Aziraphael of Heaven. The _good_ parts of it, too; not the endless committee meetings and the eternally boring white decor 1, just the solar wind against his face, sweeping him onwards, and the gentle warmth of starlight against his wings. Since the incident with the sword and his subsequent demotion, it was the closest the angel had gotten to that feeling of Home.

(1 The angel's later love of tartan will be, in large part, a subtle form of rebellion again the Heavenly sense of style. That same minimalist sense of style is, ironically, one of the few Heavenly instincts Crowley retained after he Fell.)

In recent centuries, the angel had taken to venturing further and further afield from his current home base next to the Mediterranean Sea. As humans cover more and more of the world, he had gone out visiting to many different regions, checking on the progress of different tribes and making sure that Evil is kept properly restrained. And of course, if these missions allowed him to stretch his wings, all the better.

But he had never gone quite this far afield, before.

It was an accident, as a matter of fact. The angel had been aiming for Eastern Africa, meaning to check on the development of the various tribes there. But somewhere off Morocco, a mighty storm had blown up, with winds fiercer than any the angel had ever seen, and he had been pushed far off-course.

The storm had carried Aziraphael for what felt like days, tossing and battering him about like he weighed nothing. Aziraphael was a very strong flyer, but as time dragged on, he grew tired from constantly battling the winds. His wing muscles stiffened, and began to ache, and water soaked into every inch of his feathers, making them heavy and decreasing his efficiency. By the time he made his way to the swirling wall of wind that marked the edge of the storm, he didn't have enough strength left to push his way outside. So he was forced to remain within the storm, flying onward, hoping that it would soon run out of speed and dissipate.

Finally, on the third day, the winds began to die down, and their rotation was disrupted enough that the angel could escape. He dove down hard and skimmed the surface of the water, and then under blue skies, he looked up and gave thanks. For there, just a smudge on the Western horizon, he saw land.

It was no land that the angel recognized on sight; he had a general grasp of the shape of the Earth and the relative layout of the continents, but as previously established, there were many places that he had not personally seen. Many of them had been empty of people until recent centuries, after all. The angel did some basic reckoning in his head, and realized that he must be somewhere near the narrow center of that long, vaguely hourglass-shaped landmass on the other side of the world.

Well. This was quite an adventure.

Settling down on a gorgeous, deserted beach, the angel was reminded briefly of Eden. He admired the sparkling white sand, the crystal-clear waters teeming with colourful fish, and the lush green of the local vegetation dotted here and there with jewel-bright blossoms and fruits. The sun was pleasantly warm, and Aziraphael unfurled his wings, spreading them carefully in the sun to dry. Angels didn't need to sleep, of course, but he'd been working ever so hard for so long, battling that awful storm, and it surely couldn't hurt to rest his head for just a minute...

A loud and fervent prayer interrupted the angel's sleep, startling him into alertness. The prayer was desperate and unfocused, not aimed at Anyone in particular — rather like a wideband distress call, sent to anyone who could listen. And it was powered by the sort of sheer unfiltered, unedited _belief_ that could only be generated by the soul of a child.

Aziraphael picked himself up and shook the sand off his wings. With a snap he was aloft, racing toward the source of the prayer.

As the angel flew inland, he began to find signs of human population. Small wooden dwellings dotted the dense jungle, clustered together in groups of five or ten. 

_Truly, they've spread even to here?_ The angel marveled at the way the creatures seemed to get simply _everywhere_. Why, only a few millennia ago, there had been a few huddled tribes in Africa and the Middle East, and everyone was on a first name basis. And now there were people even here, on the other side of the world.

Soon the angel came across a river, and followed its winding path until he reached an island. On that island was a group of much larger structures, all laid out around a central square.

These buildings appeared to be made of packed earth and stone. The tallest of them was an imposing pyramid with jagged, stair-step sides, that towered over the central plaza. 

Making himself unseeable and swooping in closer, Aziraphael saw that many of the buildings were decorated with ornate carvings. Some of the carvings depicted men in elaborate headdresses, alongside fantastic, many-limbed beasts. Other ones were rows of regularly-spaced symbols and glyphs; looking at them, the angel felt that covetous itch in the back of his mind that signified that he was in the presence of Literature. 

But he would have to study later; right now he had work to do. 

There was a crowd of people gathered in the plaza, many of them dressed in brightly-colored robes. Somewhere among that crowd was the source of the desperate prayer. At the head of the crowd, standing on a platform in front of the pyramid, were several men. Their robes were even more brightly-colored than the rest, and they wore elaborate headgear with feathers and animal skins, much like those depicted in the carvings. These men — priests of some kind, he gathered — were gathered around a large piece of carved basalt, and on the top of the altar was—

Oh. Oh, Heaven...

On the top of the altar was a boy, no older than seven. And one of the priests, the one with the largest headdress, was holding up a sleek black obsidian dagger and waving it about as he chanted, in a way that left really no doubt as to his intentions.

The boy was meant to be a human sacrifice.

Aziraphael knew of the concept, of course. Several of the Middle Eastern tribes had come up with the idea on their own (perhaps with the help of a certain Adversary), and it had taken a great deal of effort and ecumenical diplomacy to convince them all to switch to animals. (He felt bad for the poor creatures, of course, but animal sacrifice was still preferable to such an appalling waste of human life.) Despite this, he had never experienced a human sacrifice in person.

The boy's prayers became ever more frantic as the priest uttered the final words of his blessing — something about turning the wheel of time, and ensuring that the Sun continued to travel through the sky. Aziraphael prepared himself to intervene. He really shouldn't — these were in no way his people — but he simply couldn't let something like this pass. The boy's prayers were too earnest, and too intense, for any angel to ignore. The child's heart was truly pure.

Just as the angel was about to dart forward and snatch up the child, a metaphysical disturbance shook the ether and knocked him backward, halo-over-wings. Something that almost sounded like hissing, but much deeper and with a strangely melodic undertone, filled the angel's mind and set his bones vibrating. 

Aziraphael looked up, and up, and up.

There above the pyramid, filling the sky from end to end, was a creature the likes of which Aziraphael had never seen. It was serpentine in basic structure, but all around the head and all along the back was a crest of long, sharp, brightly-colored feathers. The being opened its mouth to hiss again, revealing sharp fangs, each one the size of a human. This being could have easily swallowed the angel whole, with plenty of room left over for condiments.

As it perched and descended the steps of the pyramid, Aziraphael was battered by waves of tremendous power emanating from the being. The waves grew stronger as the priests' chanting crescendoed, and Aziraphael could _feel_ the intense belief emanating from the gathered audience.

This... This was a _deity_.

Aziraphael had encountered other human pantheons, of course, especially as he ventured further away from the home of the religions that would one day be known as Abrahamic2. But those deities were still essentially _people_ — like human beings, only larger and _more_. Aziraphael tended to treat them basically like mortals. 

(2 It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.)

But this... this was something different. The feathered serpent was fat on blood and belief, and his power had been growing unchallenged for years. Aziraphael knew that he could never take the god on, not alone. Perhaps someone like Michael could have taken this god down, or a garrison of angels, but certainly not a single, swordless Principality.

Aziraphael clenched his fists so hard that his fingernails dug into his palms (which shouldn't really have been possible in his ethereal form). He focused all of his attention on staying upright and still, on not doing anything to draw the god's attention. He trembled with the effort of keeping his rage in check, and when the priest lowered the blade in a gleaming flash, Aziraphael couldn't help but let lose a single, keening wail.

Fortunately, it was drowned out by the ecstasy of the crowd.

In that moment, as the feathered serpent opened his jaws to snap up the brightly wriggling little soul — much as a regular snake would ingest a tender mouse — something happened to Aziraphael that he would ignore and repress and try to forget for centuries after. 

In that instant, Aziraphael felt the first, vague stirrings of doubt, and began to question the Ineffable Plan.

What was this _for_? It didn't make sense; the feathered serpent wasn't on either Side, so what purpose could the boy's death possibly serve? If God was God, how could he allow it? For that matter, if God was God, why did these people not know Him? And where had the feathered serpent come from in the first place? Did God create him? If so, why? And if not... what did _that_ mean?

These blasphemous, dangerous thoughts struck his mind like arrows, as the serpent closed its mouth with a snap. The people cheered louder; their god was pleased, and Time would continue on its course for another cycle.

Amid the revelry, Aziraphael took wing and flew frantically East, heading for more familiar shores.

 

\--------

 

The shallow bowl raised a lingering puff of dust when Aziraphael planted it firmly in the dirt. Raising the amphora, he poured wine and watched it darken and moisten the red clay. 

A bowl of wine: a proper gift for a serpent. It might work.

Adversary or no, the angel needed to be around his own pantheon. He craved the feel of familiar Power, and longed to discuss his adventure with someone, anyone, who shared his worldview — even someone from the other side, as it were. But Azriaphael wasn't foolish enough to think that the demon would show up without a peace offering, after their last several encounters ended in mutual discorporation. 

_What was the last time, 5 centuries ago? How time flies..._

The angel was still dangling the amphora in one hand, lost in nostalgia, when the demon arrived. Crowley showed up in his human form, probably just to be contrary. He shot a disgusted glare at the dirty bowl of wine, bent over gracefully, and snatched it up. With a snap of his fingers, the dusty clay bowl was transformed into an elegant black chalice, painted with fine, intricate red-and-white images of humans. Young and beautiful humans, dancing and doing strange things... oh. 

The angel blushed and looked away. 

The demon flicked his inhumanly-long tongue down over the surface of the wine, smelling and tasting. "Mmm, that's better," he commented, and when Aziraphael looked back, he was holding out another cup.

The angel took it and balanced it carefully in his hand, noting that the paintings on this one were merely fish and birds.

"Alright, what's going on, angel?" the demon demanded. "Why are you being suddenly so... nice? Summoning me with wine, offering hospitality... What do you want?"

"Have you ever been to the other landmass, Crowley? The one across the Western ocean?"

The demon looked at Aziraphael like he'd gone insane. "Nooooo, of course not. Why would I?"

"Did you know that they worship a feathered serpent over there?"

"A feathered serpent, eh? How very _original_." The demon rolled his eyes, which was quite a sight. 

"Well? Have a drink and tell me all about it, then."

The angel did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make this chapter (like the rest of the ficlets) as historically accurate as possible. The people are meant to be the [Olmec](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olmec), who did indeed build pyramids and have writing. And basically every Mesoamerican civilization worshipped a feathered serpent deity, albeit under different names.


	5. How to Embrace a Swamp Creature

**5\. How to Embrace a Swamp Creature — The Mountain Goats**

_"I stand where the flashing swords gleam  
And I try to shake my head clear of the dream  
But I’m out of my element   
I can’t breathe  
I'm out of my element_

_I can't breathe"_

**Date:** July 21, A.D. 64  
 **Place:** Rome

History-minded people love to point out that Nero could never have played the fiddle while Rome burned, because the fiddle wasn't invented until sometime in the 10th century. Those people clearly do not know the identity of the Emperor's closest advisor.

(Also, it wasn't the Devil _himself_ who went down to Georgia. Really, don't you think that Lucifer Morningstar has better things to do?)

As a matter of fact, Crowley had been encouraging the Emperor's fiddle-playing efforts for several months, mainly because the man was _terrible_ at it, completely unskilled and with no sense of pitch or rhythm. His frantic, high-decibel squawkings upon the strange, barbarian instrument quickly instilled a sense of despair and hopeless anger among everyone who was "privileged" (forced) to hear them.

Nero was one of Crowley's favorite pet projects, for many different reasons.

But now it was all going to shit, and Nero still wouldn't stop scraping away at that fucking violin, even as reports poured in of first one district, and then another, going up on flames. Crowley gritted his teeth and thought longingly of picking up the fiddle, with its delicately carved wooden inlays and age-warmed, hand-worn wood, and smashing it directly over the mad Emperor's head; but alas, it was not to be. As yet another messenger galloped in, bearing more bad news, the demon decided it was time to make a tactical retreat.

Crowley was on the way out the door, when a phrase lodged itself in his ear like an unwelcome gnat. "— the Esquiliae destroyed, and now the wind does turn even toward the Templum Pascis —" He turned his head, but the knot of advisors around the Emperor had grown thick and clotted with low-level fear. Crowley saw that he had no chance of getting to question the hapless messenger in person.

_Sssshit._

He scurried off in the direction of his villa, trying to shake away the image of a little hole-in-the-wall shop in the Templum Pascis, stuffed to the brim with dry, old, extremely _flammable_ scrolls.

 

\--------------

 

It's not his business, dammit.

It's one thing to get together from time to time, once every few decades, and reminisce over vast quantities of wine. That's only tactical, really; know thy enemy, and all that. Besides, he was getting an angel drunk, which had to count for something, and really it was all part of the demon's extremely, _extremely_ long-term plan to wear down the angel's defenses and lure Aziraphale into trusting him.

That all was entirely different from directly helping him, from _warning_ him. And the angel could certainly survive a fire just fine; the loss of his precious scrolls wasn't all that big of an issue.

It wasn't the fire that Crowley was most concerned about.

The demon shifted uncomfortably on his comfortable couch, and motioned his servant to pour him more wine. He'd started drinking to distract himself, but now for some reason it seemed like the drunker he got, the more he couldn't help but think about the angel.

Crowley was no fool; he'd made a point of placing himself firmly just two steps adjacent to the center of power in Rome. (Which was a much safer place to stand then directly in the middle, and much less prone to encounters with cold steel.) Furthermore, the demon _listened_ to the rumblings about town and the discussions of the nobles, and made it his business to keep an ear (sometimes literally) pressed to the ground. He could see the wind's direction.

After the fire, the Emperor would need a scapegoat, some group upon which he could unleash the hounds of popular fury. Someone to take the fall, to deflect blame from himself.

And who better to take the blame than that widely unpopular, upstart cult that called themselves the 'Christians'?

Crowley sunk down lower on his couch.

The last time he'd seen Aziraphale, the demon had been doing a little incognito investigation of this strange new group that refused to worship the Emperor. Crowley, incognito in snake-skin, had crept through a crack into the little darkened room that served as the cult's meeting-place. He had hissed a little when he noticed the angel standing at the back of the meeting, not speaking nor drawing attention to himself, but still unmistakably present. Associated with the group.

_Chalk one up for the home-pantheon, I suppose._

(The look on the angel's face had been... joyous. Beaming, really. Crowley wasn't sure why, but he knew that he would never forget that particular smile. Really, Aziraphale had almost been glowing; it was a surprise the followers of Christus hadn't proclaimed a visitation right then and there.)

The demon really didn't want to think about his Enemy undergoing the treatment that he knew the Christians would soon receive. He was familiar with Nero's preferred tortures. (Crowley may or may not have made a few suggestions, helped to refine little things here and there.) So he knew exactly how unpleasant things could be, and the thought of Aziraphale in any of those positions made him feel a little bit sick.

But still. To blatantly help the Enemy... It was a dangerous step, and Crowley was something of a coward. He did nothing to deny it; courage was a virtue, and Crowley was a demon. No virtue had any rightful place inside his heart.

The proper, cowardly, _demonic_ thing to do would be to just disappear. To grab his liquid assets (ha!) and get right out of town, maybe set up some nice villa in the country for awhile, and wait until Rome was less bloody and chaotic. (Oh wait, it was _Rome_. Well, until the city finished rebuilding, at least.)

As Crowley wriggled on the couch and tossed back another goblet of wine, he resolved firmly to go and do just that. Really really soon, just after this next amphora.

 

\--------------

 

Crowley sleeps often, but dreams little. In general, sleep is just a velvet blackness that covers his mind like a blanket, soft and cool.

This time was different.

He opened his eyes to the feel of wind in his face, and found himself standing at the top of an incredibly high, featureless building made of cold white stone. Above Crowley, the sky was bright with millions of stars, so clear that he could pick out the faintest constellations, despite the glow of the pale full moon. The patterns in the sky hinted at ancient secrets, at love and a plan and a universe with _meaning_. The air was almost heartbreakingly clean, and poured like cold water over his lips.

The effect was spartan, but achingly beautiful. There were no plants, no birds, no living things; only the purity of white stone and white stars.

Then the building began to tumble and heave below his feet, swaying sickeningly from side to side. Crowley found himself on his belly, clinging to the rock with broken fingernails, trying desperately to hang on. To maintain his view of the stars, at any price. But the building would have none of it, and it crumbled away beneath his hands, finally tilting and flinging him off.

The demon fell for minutes, hurling downward through thin air with nothing to cling to, no way to escape. This was nothing like flying, and it wasn't any easier the second time around.

When he landed with a sickening crunch, it was in a world of fire. Even the tears of pain that filled his eyes couldn't block the sight of the flickering flames as they leapt from building to building, to person, to animal, taking up everything that was in their path and leaving behind a trail of screaming and charred flesh. Now there were people, now there was life — just in time for that life to run and scream and be consumed.

The fire was relentless, touching everything in sight, spreading terror and destruction. Crowley was damaged enough from the Fall that he could not escape. He smelled the acrid stink of burning feathers just before the first wave of intense pain. It knocked him off of his feet, but even rolling on the ground, he couldn't extinguish the fire that consumed his wings, eating into the thick muscle and charring delicate bones.

 

Crowley awoke covered in sweat, twisted and trembling and halfway off the couch. An empty amphora dripped wine onto the marble floor; he must have knocked it over in his sleep.

The demon pushed himself upright, and shook his head to clear it. Only one thought remained.

 _Never again._

Not if he could help it.

He tossed a cloak around him but didn't bother with sandals as he strode out the door. Heading toward the Templum Pascis and the home of his best Enemy, he practiced words of warning under his breath.

 

\--------------

 

"But I can't just leave them!" The angel is wide-eyed, grasping at handfuls of scrolls, knocking a stack of them over into the mud. He gives a desperate cry and dives down after them, scrabbling unashamedly in the dirt to scoop them up again and bear them all to safety.

Crowley rolls his eyes. "Did you hear what I just told you, angel? It's not just the fire; they're going to be _hunting down Christians_ , and I already know you won't do anything _effective_ to defend yourself. What part of 'leave or be painfully tortured' don't you understand?"

The angel just stares at him with those big blue eyes, looking slightly shell-shocked. Crowley feels an unpleasant prickling in his gut, and makes a mental note to have his cook switch to a different fish merchant. 

He doesn't really understand why he does it, but Crowley snaps his fingers and makes an oxcart appear, with two docile oxen lowing and tossing their heads in front. "There, now load up your bloody scrolls, and _go_ ," he snaps.

Oddly enough, both the cart and the two oxen are jet black and shiny, like they're made of polished steel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, two Mountain Goats songs on the same mixtape. Sorry, I just love them both so much.
> 
> Also, love me some protective!Crowley.


End file.
